Revelations stirred from the vestiges of vines and hedges, mysteries a little less intertwined, enigmas a little more than spitfire and ash, clouds of the unknown come to hover like fog, like mist, like rain. She gazed upon the man who claimed he had no ambition, no wants, and no aspirations clinging to his skull and pointing him down pathways; and she wondered what such an existence could entail. Wandering? Wayfaring? Living nomadically, a Gypsy fanfare, rummaging past lines in the sand and billowing wind, tossing aside anything and everything, collecting nothing, taking what one could, snatching, clawing, then leaving it all over again? Were there no attachments? No bonds? No oaths to loyalty, to assurances, to convictions and confidences? The Songbird narrowed her eyes for a fraction, truly studying the starry figure before her, pondering over the lengths of loneliness, if they rattled the senses, muddled the mind, pierced into desolation and seclusion until it all seemed so very normal. To some, it might’ve been a blessing, an opportunity to run and chase down the world without any responsibility, without any connections, without a sense of fondness holding, mooring, anchoring them to anyone or anything. To others, it might have been a ruin, a cumbersome weight across their shoulders, inescapable, morose, and destitute. She wasn’t sure which portion settled upon Atlas, too strong, too bold, too refined to be without anything holding him in place. But the nymph had gone through her life on a list of experiences, wants, and longings, stirred towards bliss, towards virtue, towards friends, companionship, love, and compassion – it had been rooted in her since she was born and left, shrinking into the wildflowers, crawling beneath leaves and boughs. “Shame we didn’t find each other then,” she said on a slip of a laugh, as it trickled through the shroud and veil of petals and soft, dulcet dewdrops (like she hadn't been busy running after demons felled by swords, chasing after blue-eyed brigands, hoping to become something more). Her brow arched, regal and noble, lips pursing together for a moment, deep in thought, in concentration, deciding whether or not to voice her next inquiry; but he’d been encouraging her boldness, her daring, her dauntlessness, so it slid along her mouth in the next interval, the harbored lull. If he was anxious, she never felt it. “There’s truly nothing you’ve ever wanted to do?”
 
The concept mystified her, because she’d always craved an ability to do something: fly off into the mountains on a brilliant gale, dance below the horizon’s shifting colors, sing until the moon fell and the sun rose, protect, shield, and safeguard those she held dear – her life could’ve been eternal on the wings of her dreams. Some were feasible, others were not, and she could settle for the ones pinioned to her heart, reverent and rapturous.
 
But then the query folded back to her, and she grinned again, radiant, bright, casting her eyes back towards the sky, where they imagined the bits and pieces of her past, the trial, the errors, the interesting construction and composition of how she’d come to be here, now. “I tried a couple things. I was once an Emissary. I went to war several times. I battled monsters and friends,” here, her eyes slid down, towards a few tree trunks and pale, ivory blossoms, then back to Atlas’s features, casting everything back into a holy sanctuary, a refined portion of grace and poise (as if she’d never been a demon herself, a lie, because she’d shed blood and she’d stabbed and she’d lacerated, bested a mare who was only trying to defend her home). “I discovered I enjoyed healing much more. Soothing others is enough. It’s a purpose.” Enough to keep her content, satisfied, when the day ended and she and Imogen drifted off on their own, bundled into the cold wares and the assuaging snow, staring out over darkness, musing on what the next day would bring. Enough to parade over the edges of those who’d been lost, of those who’d wandered off, of those who’d no sooner cast them off a cliff. Some days it didn’t matter at all; too tired, too exhausted, too fatigued, to even begin to ponder over where inspirations and invocations had led her.
 
His even tones, his shrug of her endeavors and assuaging marks, cast her own silly wares, maneuvering out of his grasp, out of his reach, toying with the ruffian vines and the rambling garden, maneuvering closer to a series of copses and groves that spun out in every direction – as far as the eye could see – without signs, without indicators, of where they ceased and where they twisted; a lost paradise. Lena didn’t stop to think about what he meant; she always carried her own trials and tribulations – if she was foolish enough to cast an error, it was hers and hers alone, no one else had the right to claim her mistakes and poor judgment. If she permitted the world to forgive her so readily for stupidity, for ineptitude, for selfishness, then when would she ever grow, ever learn, ever tire of doing the same ridiculous things day in and day out? The Sun God had taught her a valuable lesson when she’d asked for her power – that everything came with a price. “I wouldn’t ask you to bear any of my burdens, Atlas,” she called, strong and defiant, a warning, increasing another arch to her brow, as she traversed further, along a path riddled with stones and pebbles, shining beneath the glint, the glamor, of the sun.